Thanksgiving weekend, Michael, Sutton and I golfed at a course we’ve played dozens of times on our trips to the Coachella Valley. Each time we played there was a “starter” named Bob to welcome us and send us out on the course. We first played the course about fifteen years ago. Bob has worked there for twenty-three. He became a “starter” when he retired from his “real job”.
Bob was there when we played last weekend. When he spoke to Sutton he said, “It’s good to see the Tebos on the tee sheet again. What’s new with the family?” Sutton shared the news of Ruth’s passing.
Mike and I didn’t witness the exchange as Sutton had driven ahead without us. Bob drove his cart back to Mike and me and offered his condolences. He told us he lost his wife of forty-eight years last February. “It’s a tough thing.”
I could see his eyes mist up and mine did the same. We both paused a moment and then he said, “You’re going to have a lot of new firsts.”
I responded, “And a lot of new lasts.” In my mind I was referring to what I expect to be my final trip to the valley. I’m sure it will always be open for a return visit, but I’m not sure I’ll go without Ruth again.
In retrospect, I think firsts are easier to recognize then lasts. Firsts provide new opportunities, while many lasts are unrecognizable. Some just pop up. Others hang out in the wind with no place to land.
You either like your firsts or you don’t. You wish for more of those you like and avoid a repeat of those you’d rather forget. Some lasts are welcome and others you wish just weren’t last. Sometimes you’d like to circle back and call a “do over” for both, but life doesn’t work that way. You get what you get and make the best of it all.
Bob and I have probably held our last conversation. We each took a moment to look beyond our ordinary topics to become a bit philosophical. I hope he found it to be as helpful as me.
Lasts…and not knowing when they’re going to be, is a reminder for us all to be more present in each moment. I remember my dad ice skating, the sound of the blade on the ice, watching him turn and glide backwards, so effortlessly. He grew up on Ackerson Lake and skated since he was a toddler. I was with him the last time he skated, but didn’t know it would be his last. I don’t think he knew it either. I wish I would have, but usually we don’t get that privilege, so we have to act as if each experience could be our last. Thanks for reminding me to do this. I’m sure, with losing Ruth , you’re bombarded with unknowing lasts. I wish you and your family peace and love as you continue to live as Ruth did.